


Radar Love

by der_tanzer



Series: Catbread [31]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murray and Quinlan take on an abusive neighbor in a battle of wills, and technology, that can have only one possible outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radar Love

**Author's Note:**

> My family has the misfortune to live across the street from the OC in this story, the plot of which was conceived by my darling Herr on a recent sleepless night. We've never done this, nor will we, but oh, it is fun to dream. Many thanks to Herr for the tech support, and, I suppose, to J, for being such a tremendous wanker that I have to write revenge fics about him.  
> 

The car across the street started up at six in the morning. Murray knew it was precisely six because he woke at once and turned to the clock on the nightstand. It was Saturday and everyone else on the street was sleeping in, but not Jay Brakeman. Jay Brakeman got up extra early on Saturday mornings to run his car, possibly for the sole purpose of waking Murray. It certainly wasn't to go anywhere. In the three years that Murray and Ted had lived in the house across the street from Jay Brakeman, his 1972 Nova hadn't left the driveway once. But it had set the neighborhood record for sitting there with the engine running, by achieving the remarkable time of fifteen straight hours, on Sunday, July 14, 1988. No one knew exactly how Jay Brakeman fueled this car, since he never drove it to a gas station, but there was talk around the barbeques of gifting him with a gas can so foully polluted that the Nova would never recover.

"Jesus-jumped-up-Christ in a chariot driven sidecar," Ted shouted, bounding out of bed. "I swear to God, if I was still a cop, I'd be over there every fucking minute of the day just writing violations on that happy asshole."

Murray started to answer but just then the Nova revved up, from a low _vroom vroom_, to a frantic _VROOOOM VROOOOM_ that drowned out every other sound. Quinlan threw himself back down on the bed, still wishing he had that citation book. After a minute, the revving died down and Murray turned over, putting his head on Quinlan's chest with a sigh.

"Can't we get the cops out to write just a couple tickets?"

"He'd just shut it off when he saw 'em coming. Anyway, we've been all over that. We need a plan or that dumb son of a bitch is just gonna run that car forever."

"A better plan than the police?"

"When I was in high school, we'd stick potatoes and shit up the tailpipes. If you really block it up good, you can blow up the manifold. But most times we'd at least get the muffler."

"It's a good idea," Murray yawned, "but I don't think he _has_ a muffler."

"Yeah, well, we can't go trespassing and vandalizing cars anyway. We ain't kids."

"But if we weren't trespassing, that'd be different, right?"

"What, you know how to blow up a manifold from across the street?"

"Oh, I can do something way better than that."

"You ain't doing anything except going to the movies with me. If we're not home, he can't bother us."

***

Quinlan wasn't so sanguine when they got home from a late supper and found the Nova still running.

"Fourteen and a half hours," Murray sighed as he unlocked the front door. "I hope he's not trying to break the record."

"Hey, guys," Jane called, running across the lawn that divided their properties. "Hang on a second."

"Hi, Jane," Murray said, pausing with his hand on the knob. "What's up?"

"It's that _car_. He can't break the record today, he turned the damned thing off for five minutes this afternoon, but we have to do something. Everyone's going crazy. Don't you have any cop friends who could help us out, Ted?"

"It's tricky, girly. There ain't really a law against a man running his own car on his own property. Maybe it's noise pollution or disturbing the peace, but the thing is, he's gonna know it was us who brought the law down on him, and you don't want that in your neighborhood. It's called shitting where you sleep, and it ain't a good idea."

"But we have to do _something_," she insisted.

"We will," Murray told her. "But that's just between us."

"I knew I could count on you." She kissed his cheek with a grin, slapped Ted on the shoulder, and ran back home to tell Deb the good news.

"I don't know what you're planning," Quinlan muttered, "but it doesn't sound like a great idea."

"Just answer me one question, Lieutenant. Is it the vandalism you object to, or just getting caught?"

"Normally, I'd say both. But in this case—I need some fucking sleep, kid. If you can shut that thing down without hurting anybody or getting your ass arrested, I'm on board."

"Good. But let's give him a fair chance, first. Let's go over there and ask him nicely to not start so early or keep it up so late."

"Can we do that and not have him suspect us later?"

"Oh yes. Absolutely. What I'm thinking of, he'll never guess that anyone did anything. He'll think it's just the car. I bet we can make him sell it. Maybe even have it junked."

"Great. You want to do it now? May as well get it over with so we can get started junking that car."

Murray pocketed his keys and followed Ted across the street. The Nova sat in Brakeman's driveway beside the car he drove every day, its nose pointed at the street and its hood standing open. Jay was sitting half inside it, one foot on the pavement and the other on the gas, revving it when he saw his neighbors coming. _VROOOOM VROOOOM_, howled the poor old motor, and blue smoke poured out the back end in a cloud. Murray hesitated, then saw the Mendozas standing on their front porch. They were old and needed their rest, but they had to live next door to this guy. He decided that he owed it to them, and to Deb, who still was spooked by loud noises, and to all of the other good people who made him feel so at home in the neighborhood. That Nova was going down.

"Hey, Brakeman," Quinlan said, his tone less than perfectly friendly, but still not quite hostile. The other man revved the motor a couple more times, then hauled himself up out of the car.

"What do you want, Quinlan?"

"Nothing much. Just wanted to ask when you were gonna be finished with this little project for the night. It's eight-thirty and you been running this thing since dawn."

"So? It's my car, I can run it when I want."

"That's right. I ain't saying you _can't_, I'm just asking you not to. It's late and people want to get some sleep."

"Yeah? I don't hear anyone else complaining."

"Do they have to?" Murray asked in exasperation. "You _know_ it's loud, you _know_ it's annoying—why can't you just be a good neighbor and shut it off?"

"Why can't you mind your own business?"

"We _are_ minding our own business," Quinlan said patiently. "It's our business when there's too damn much noise over here for us to watch TV, let alone get a decent night's sleep."

"Who the hell are you kidding? You ain't sleeping over there."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not going to do this. I'm not going to stand here in my own driveway and take orders from _you_."

"That's fine, because I ain't giving any orders. I'm just saying that the folks around here deserve a little peace and quiet on the weekends. We don't want to listen to this frigging thing all day long."

"Well, the weekends are the only time I can work on it," he said belligerently.

"Then why do you run it every weeknight, too?" Quinlan asked, refusing to let the bigger man back him down.

"Besides," Murray chimed in, "I never see you working on it. What do you accomplish by revving it over and over all day long? I could have told you the pistons are bad and one of the rocker arms is sticking after the first day." That was true, even if he did only know it because Ted had told him.

"Hey, fuck you. What do you know about cars, you scrawny little shit?"

"No one wants this to get personal," Quinlan said, his voice low and dangerous. "But I can tell you one thing right now. This kid knows more about _everything_ than you ever will. So just to be clear, you ain't gonna stop with the car?"

"Yeah, just to be clear, I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want and you can kiss my ass."

"What's your problem?" Murray asked, feeling safe behind his powerful lover.

"My only problem is two fags in my driveway trying to tell me what to do."

"What did I say about getting personal?"

"I don't know, I wasn't listening. You aren't a cop anymore, Quinlan. You're just a tired old queer who can't even get a decent looking guy and I don't give a shit what you have to say about anything. Now get off my property before I call the _real_ police."

"Fine. If that's the kind of neighbor you want to be, it's your business. Come on, Murray. Let's go home and let Mr. Brakeman get on with his sophisticated engine diagnostics."

He turned around and Murray followed, the sound of the viciously revving engine chasing them across the street. Neither tried to speak until they were safely inside their own house, where the noise was dulled somewhat, but not nearly enough.

"Okay, kid. What's your big plan?"

Quinlan dished up some ice cream while Murray explained very briefly the device that he wanted to build and where he would have to go to get the parts.

"The only problem is line of sight," he finished, thoughtfully licking his spoon.

"From where to where?"

"From here to there. I need a direct view not just of the car, but of the wiring. Like spark plug wires or something."

"Huh. Well, he's always got the hood up. Can you do it through the front window?"

"I need to be higher so I can aim down into the engine. The roof would work better."

"No way," he said flatly. "I don't care if we never sleep again. You're _not_ going up on the roof."

"We could make it safe. You could rig something on the back side for me and I could fire over the peak like a sniper."

Quinlan could tell he was excited by the sniper idea and his own creative mind immediately went to work on it. Seeing Murray grin like that while licking things was a powerful incentive.

"And you're sure he won't know who did it?"

"I'm sure. It'll be great, Lieutenant. You'll see." He ate his ice cream and they went to bed, but not to sleep. The Nova ran until almost ten, the engine revving and falling off, revving and falling off, as Jay Brakeman sat in his driveway determinedly spiting them. It was a wasted effort, however, as they were making love the whole time and both were too tired at the end to notice when the car finally died.

***

The Nova started up at five the next morning, waking Quinlan with a jolt. Murray turned over and hugged him, murmuring that it was okay. The car would be dead soon.

"Not soon enough. Those stores open today?"

"Uh-huh. We could take a shower and go into the city for breakfast. I can probably find almost everything I need today and get the device built this week."

"Don't you need to plot it out more?"

"I'll do that in the car. The only thing I'm not sure about is the power supply."

"Why's that?"

"Because," he yawned, snuggling into Quinlan's shoulder, "it's going to take a _lot_ of power. If the breakers trip, it won't work."

"What's the back-up plan? I can fix the breakers so they don't trip, but…"

"But that could fry the whole house. No, we'll ask Jane if we can borrow from them, too. All we have to do is run an extension cord from their house to the transformer I'm going to build. Oh, or I could tap directly into the main transformer outside. There would be plenty of power there and no one would notice."

"They'd notice when they had to come out and scrape your charred ass off the pole. We'll pick up some heavy duty cords in town and hook up as many neighbors as we need."

"Okay. It's too bad, though. I always wanted to tap a transformer."

"I'm glad you told me. Now I know what to watch for. So what about the rest of it? How in the hell are you gonna build a DC transformer?"

"Well, I'm not going to build it from scratch. But I can buy a heavy one and modify it. That's the thing, Lieutenant. Everything has to be the heaviest duty we can get. Except the magnetron."

"The whatatron?

"The magnetron. It's a—a power amplifier. We can get one out of any microwave oven."

"You wanna cannibalize our microwave?"

"No, but we can get a used one somewhere. And a welder. An old used welder would make a great transformer."

"I know a guy who's got a junk yard. He always has old welders and shit he's repairing or parting out."

"Is his yard open today?"

"Probably not, but he owes me a favor. I'll give him a call before we go."

"Excellent. Maybe he'll have a microwave, too. The magnetron has to work, but not the rest. He might have one with a broken door or missing knobs or something."

"I'll ask. Now let's get going. I can't lie here and listen to that fucking car for another minute."

Murray slid out of bed and put on his robe, then went out to the living room to put a cassette on the stereo. He turned it up loud and sang along, cheerfully plotting the demise of the unfortunate Nova. It would be expensive and time consuming, but it would also be great fun.

***

Their first stop before heading into the city was Lehane's Stuff 'n' Junk, where Quinlan's friend Sean came up with a trashed welder and a microwave oven with a broken timer. Murray paid for them, a very reasonable sum, he felt, and Sean agreed to bring the equipment over in his truck that night.

Murray was excited when they got back in the car. It was so easy to get two of the most important parts that he couldn't help but feel confident that the rest of the day would go well.

He doodled and made notes in his little book all the way into LA, and when they went into the first store, he impressed Quinlan mightily with his knowledge and bargaining skills. About half of the things on his list were buried somewhere in that dusty secondhand shop, and while they dug out components and haggled over prices, the proprietor told him about a new store that had just opened called Discount Gizmos. He said the rest of the things on Murray's list were probably there, and Murray wrote down the address eagerly.

Quinlan was content to lift and carry, loading the car and not saying enough to actually prove that he was out of his depth in their company. He just half-smiled and tried not to look bored.

When Murray finally paid and gave him the last box of odds and ends to put in the trunk, he was nearly dancing with anticipation.

"Calm down, kid," Quinlan said fondly. "People are gonna think this is your first death ray."

"We should have breakfast before we go to the next store," he said in answer. "It'll probably take a while."

"All right. Any place special you want to go?"

"I want doughnuts."

"Great, more sugar. You're building this whole thing today, aren't you?"

"I probably could if I stayed up all night. That'll take a lot of pastry."

Quinlan slammed the trunk lid and touched Murray's waist lightly, subtly, a promise for later.

"Not all night, kid. You've got plenty of time."

"It's the Fourth on Saturday, remember? Mike and Rionda are having a barbecue. I want to kill the car on Friday so we'll have peace and quiet."

"Oh, right. Mike said he was going to invite Brakeman at the last minute if he was running the car that day. But I like your idea better."

Mike and Rionda Washington lived on the other side of Deb and Jane in the biggest house on the block. They were the only family on the block with a pool and always hosted barbecues for Memorial Day, Labor Day and the Fourth of July. Jay Brakeman treated them as badly as he did Ted and Murray, he didn't like African-Americans any better than he did gays, but he still came to the parties when they invited him.

"If we need more power, I'll ask Mike if I can plug into his patio outlet, too. He'll do anything to save his barbecue."

"He'd do it anyway. You're the neighborhood pet, you know."

Murray blushed, ducking his head, and got into the car without answering. There was a doughnut shop down the street, and Discount Gizmos was only a few blocks away. At this rate, he could be at work in his office by two o'clock, and have the device completed by Tuesday.

***

The Nova was running when they got home, idling at its lowest roar. As soon as Murray got out of the car, it immediately revved up to a frantic, howling _VROOOOM VROOOOM VROOOOOOOOOOM_. Brakeman seemed to be standing on the gas by the time Quinlan got their trunk open, the sound of the engine rising endlessly in a futile, painful shriek. Quinlan handed Murray the lightest of the boxes and took a heavier one for himself. They hurried up to the front porch, the hideous sound following them and then falling off as they went inside. They put the boxes in Murray's office and Ted went back outside for more. Murray heard the motor rev again, half greeting and half warning, then idle back down when Quinlan returned. Each trip outside was met by that same "coincidental" threatening rev. He ignored it, never so much as glancing across the street, thinking only of Murray's pleasure and the surprise that awaited their foe.

The car ran until ten that night, and only when it finally shut off did Murray put his tools away and go to bed.

***

"I've got you, kid," Quinlan said, holding the rope loosely as Murray climbed the ladder. A pulley was rigged to a heavy branch of the big oak tree that shaded the house, and Murray wore a safety harness attached to the line that reeved through it. Quinlan had hauled the antenna up and secured it to a tripod on the back side of the roof, but it was Murray's toy to play with.

The rest of the equipment was lined up on the deck: a big welder, connected to extension cords from their house as well as Jane's and the Washington's, was plugged into a homemade transmitter, which was wired into the magnetron amplifier, to which was attached the longest cable—the one that ran to the antenna on the roof. All of these things together comprised a small but extremely powerful electro-magnetic pulse device, which was really a fancy name for radar. Murray had long been fascinated by the potential such devices held, and often bored Quinlan silly with talk of a time when police wouldn't have to engage in high speed chases—they could just press a button and disable a fleeing vehicle instantly. It would take a long time to perfect that kind of technology, but what he'd done was fairly simple. All he had to do now was hit something electrical.

When Murray reached the top of the ladder, Quinlan tightened his grip on the rope and used it to half-pull him as he slid and scrambled to the peak. The sight of it convinced Ted that he'd been right to insist on the safety line, and he tied it off on the deck rail before ascending the ladder himself. Low hanging branches mostly concealed them from the street, and Jay Brakeman would have no reason to look up here, anyway. Even if he did, the antenna looked like a small satellite dish, and while it was strange, people were used to Murray's little idiosyncrasies. They would probably just assume he'd found a way to get free cable.

Quinlan reached the peak and lay down flat on the roof, holding the ridge trough with both hands and peering over the edge while Murray sighted down on his target. The poor old Nova was idling at its lowest RPM, Brakeman lounging behind the wheel, waiting for a neighbor to come out so he could make to roar. The hood was standing open, as always, and Murray, who had an innate tendency to anthropomorphize nearly everything, felt a little bit bad that the car was going to have to pay for the sins of its owner. But it was a holiday weekend and they had a party to go to. He aimed the antenna at the right side (facing him) of the engine block with only a small sigh of regret.

Without a laser sight he couldn't be sure where he hit, but the car was still running. A minor adjustment upwards, a shade to the left, and suddenly the motor stopped. Murray turned to his lover with a grin.

"Wait, that's it? It's just dead?" Quinlan asked.

"Uh-huh."

"But how do you know it really worked? What if it just died?"

"Come on, Lieutenant. We've been listening to it for three years now. Has it _ever_ just died? Anyway, watch."

Across the street, Jay Brakeman was getting out of his car, muttering and swearing. They could see his lips moving, but not make out the words. When he leaned in under the hood, they lost even that. But when he went back and tried to start it again, his frustrated shouts at the total silence carried nicely to the men on the roof.

"I think that's it for now," Murray said cheerfully. It'll take him at least the rest of this weekend to figure out what's wrong and fix it."

"What _is_ wrong?" he asked, and was surprised by Murray's careless shrug.

"I don't know. It could have fried the distributor or fused the points, or maybe even burned up the ignition. Whatever the weakest part of the system was is where it overloaded and died."

"That's just outstanding, kid. I mean, _goddamn_. If I wasn't gonna fuck you senseless tonight, we'd be able to go to sleep right now."

"Well, we can sleep late tomorrow, at least," Murray giggled happily, the sound going straight to Quinlan's groin. If he'd had a safety harness of his own, he might have tried to screw the kid right here.

"We will. But for now we better get down from here and unplug all those cords."

"Of course. Should we leave the antenna up here for next time, or do you think someone will see it?"

"I'll bring it down. It'll only take a couple minutes to put back, now that I've got the brackets in. I'll go down and untie your line." But first he paused and ran his hand down Murray's back, over his ass and along the inside of one skinny thigh. Murray was almost unbearably attractive at that moment, flushed with pleasure over the compliments and his own satisfaction in a job well done. He shivered and Quinlan's hand slipped back up his thigh, paused at his crotch for a gentle squeeze, and pinched his ass before withdrawing.

Murray listened impatiently to Ted descending the ladder, then felt his safety line loosen. He slid down the moderately pitched roof, looking over his shoulder for the ladder, trusting the rope to hold him no matter what. When his foot touched the ladder, he felt how steady it was and wondered how Quinlan was managing to hold it and keep the rope taut. Halfway down, he risked another look over his shoulder and saw Ted leaning up against lower rungs, gripping the rope in both hands. It was snubbed around the deck railing for better control and Murray was filled with a rush of love and arousal, knowing he was perfectly safe his lieutenant's hands.

When he reached the ground, Quinlan unbuckled his harness and kissed him hard as he slipped the leather off. Murray leaned into him, feeling his lover's pride and wanting to enjoy it for as long as it might last. When Ted finally pushed him away, he retreated grudgingly, shy but wanting more.

"Come on, kid. Let's go pull these plugs."

A gate in the side fence let them go from their backyard to Jane's, a small customization made when she and Quinlan rebuilt the fence together. Jane and Deb were on their patio, sitting at attention in their glider swing, as if the slightest move would shatter their self-control. They broke into silent applause when they saw their neighbors coming, and just like that, their control was gone. Murray, smiling, held a finger to his lips, but it was all he could do not to laugh out loud. Jane clapped her hands over her mouth and bent forward, her feet dancing on the concrete as the tears of stifled laughter poured down her face. Deb was doing only a little better, holding Jane and laughing into her smooth, dark hair.

"Are you okay?" Murray asked, pausing at the edge of the patio. Jane sat up, kissed Deb quickly, and leapt out of the swing. She hugged Quinlan first, knowing that if she didn't he would get away, and laughed harder at his stiff tolerance. Murray, she kissed on the cheek, grinning at his bright red blush and Quinlan's stern glare.

"You did it, didn't you?" she whispered, wiping at her eyes. "It didn't even run down, it just dropped dead. You really did it."

"For now," he agreed, walking with her to the patio. Deb was waiting in the swing to shake his hand, briskly but with feeling. Murray was the one male in her small world that she really liked, but even he couldn't get too close. When he crouched beside the swing to unplug their cord, Deb slid over so Jane could sit between them.

"What if he fixes it?" Jane asked, still giggling. Murray tried to hold back his own laughter at the idea and it came out a snort that undid them all once more. He was shaking so hard he fell on his butt, and would have cracked his head on the concrete patio if Quinlan hadn't stepped up and caught him. As it was, he hit his head on a thickly muscled thigh and sat there smiling.

"Careful, geek boy," Quinlan said fondly, his words trying to conceal the feelings that his tone of voice so quickly betrayed. Then he was picking up the cord, already beginning to coil it as Murray got to his feet.

"It's all right, Jane," he said, choosing to address her question rather than expose any more of his lover's sentimental side. "With the pathetic tools he has, it'll take him at least into next weekend to even track it down. And the day it starts running again, we'll be over here with our extension cords. That is, if he keeps it running all day. If he ever decides to be a good neighbor and stop torturing us all, then I'll stop torturing him."

And it was torture for poor Jay Brakeman, who could be heard even in the back yard of a house across the street, shouting obscenities in his driveway.

"We might need another device to shut _him_ up," Quinlan said. "If he keeps that up for long, the kids on the next block will be talking like grade school Marines by tomorrow."

Murray snorted again and that cracked Jane up. Then Mike was at his fence, handing over a neat coil of heavy duty yellow cord. Quinlan laid his down and went to take it.

"That was some good shooting," he said, grinning widely. "Rio and I were just in the front yard enjoying the show. I tell you, that man is pure _losing_ it over there."

"We'll have to check it out. Thanks for the loan of the outlet," Quinlan said, his own smile pleased and somehow furtive. Mike guessed correctly that he wanted to get the hero alone for a private celebration and decided to keep it short.

"It's us that oughta be thanking you. Rio was talking about moving the other day. Said she can't be bringing babies into a neighborhood that's got that car in it. But I knew we were in the right place, and you proved it, by God."

"It's always a good idea to have a scientist on hand," he agreed. "You don't want to live _with_ him, 'cause he blows shit up all the time, but two houses away is just about right."

"Not _all_ the time, Lieutenant," Murray protested, joining them at the fence. "Just every few months or so. But if I didn't, we couldn't have had this joyous day of celebration."

"Tomorrow we're gonna celebrate for sure. Not only does it mark America's freedom from the British crown, from now on, it's gonna mark Clinton Street's freedom from the Brakeman Nova."

"But without telling anyone," Quinlan added. Even if charges couldn't be brought, he didn't want Brakeman waylaying Murray some night and getting his revenge.

"That's right. But they're gonna notice. It'll be the quietest barbecue our block has ever seen."

"Unless he's still shouting," Murray amended.

"I think I'll go over and talk to him about that."

"Man," Mike said, shaking his head, "not only are you a fool, I'm fool enough to go with you."

"Great. Murray, can you grab that coil? We'll put this stuff away and meet you out front."

The extension cords were hung neatly on hooks fastened to the side of the welder, which was now powered down and cooling rapidly in the lengthening shade. Murray disconnected a few of the wires and cables, then covered everything that wasn't hot with a plastic tarp.

"The best part is," he said as they went through the back door into the kitchen, "I might have accidentally taken out his TV, too."

"Kid, that's outstanding. Find a way to get his beer cooler and it'll be the end of civilization as he knows it."

Mike met them in their driveway, and the three men walked across the street together. Brakeman was deep into the Nova's mill, apparently tearing into the fuel system. Quinlan, who knew more about cars than anyone else on their street, found that funnier than everything else that had happened so far. If he really thought it was fuel rather than fire, it would take him much more than a week to track it down.

"What is it?" Murray whispered, seeing his small smirk.

"No wonder he just sits there gunning it day after day," he whispered back. "He doesn't have any idea what else to do."

Then they were at the foot of the drive and Murray fell slightly behind, not wanting to face Jay Brakeman first. Mike stayed at Ted's shoulder, tall and thin, like Murray, but with strength and determination that were closer to Quinlan's. It would take a lot more than a big guy with a loud mouth to make Michael Washington back down.

Brakeman looked up, saw them coming, and gave it his best shot.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What do _you_ people want?"

"Just noticed you were having a little trouble with your car here," Quinlan shrugged. "First time in months it's been quiet on a Friday evening so we thought we oughta ask if you needed any help."

"I don't need anything from the likes of you," he said, following it up with a string of invective, mostly aimed at Mike and Murray, which nonetheless embarrassed them all.

"Yeah," Quinlan said when he finally trailed off, "that's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. We couldn't do anything about the car noise, but if you keep shouting shit at that volume, the cops'll come out and fine you for public indecency. We got kids and old people in the neighborhood, dumbass. You gotta keep it down or keep it clean."

"Hey, fuck a buncha old people, and fuck you, too. Every time I turn around lately I got you fucking fags in my face. I told you last time to stay the hell off my property and instead you just bring more. That your deal, Wash? Your wife know you fuck around with these two?"

"No one wants to start anything with you," Mike said evenly. "But Quinlan's right. You don't own this street and it's about time you figured that out."

"And it's about time _you_ figured out that no one gives a shit what you think about anything, you cocksucking piece of shit."

"At least get your slurs right," Mike sighed. "_These_ guys are cocksuckers. _I'm_ a coon. Do I need to get you an English to Redneck dictionary?"

"Hey, fuck off."

"Now that one applies to everyone," Murray observed and Mike nodded agreement.

"Look, I got a lotta work to do here. Fucking fuel pump's gone out or something."

Murray snorted helplessly, clapping a hand over his mouth as Brakeman turned on him.

"Are you laughing at me, you little fairy? Are you really laughing at me?"

"No," he said through his hand, shaking his head violently. Jay Brakeman took a step toward him and the other two closed ranks.

"Kid can laugh at whatever he thinks is funny," Quinlan said firmly. "It's still a free country, right?"

"Right. It's a free country and I can say what I want, so get off my property already."

"That's the best we can do, then," he said and turned around. Murray looked confused and Quinlan gave him a little shove, spinning him around and getting him started in the right direction. Mike followed, watching over his shoulder to make sure Brakeman didn't come after them. He didn't, but the obscenities got louder and more vicious.

Ultimately, Quinlan called the police and Rionda came over to watch from their front porch, all four of them drinking lemonade and laughing behind their hands as Brakeman got a lecture from a rookie officer while his female senior partner observed.

"There's only one thing missing," Mike said, leaning back in his chair with his wife in his lap.

"What's that?" Murray asked.

"That lady cop over there? If she just wasn't white, it'd be the last straw. Dude's head would explode and we'd be done with him."

This time there was no concealing their laughter, but Brakeman couldn't do anything about it in front of the cops. He tried to wait them out, but the unfortunately white woman suggested it would be better if he went in and had his supper, and there wasn't a good way for him to refuse. Still, he left the front door open and when the police car pulled away they clearly heard him shout one more hopeless blasphemy at the gods of chaos who were ruining his day.

"Listen to that," Murray said happily, squeezing Quinlan's hand. "Sounds like I got the TV after all."

***

The barbecue was a huge success. It was, in fact, the first party of its kind held on Clinton Street in the past eight years that wasn't dominated by the Nova's roar. For the first time, music and conversation could be heard, only occasionally interspersed with frustrated shouts from across the street. Since the car wasn't running, there had been no reason to invite Brakeman, and he was spending the day replacing a perfectly good fuel pump while Murray played Marco Polo with the neighborhood kids and Quinlan watched from the deck with a beer in his hand. It was the joke of the day that someone had finally up and vandalized the Nova, but no one really believed it, and those who knew the truth kept quiet.

It took Brakeman four days to get out of the fuel system and the rest of the week to track down the fused points. He changed them over the next weekend and revved the motor fiercely until after ten Sunday night. When he started it up on Monday evening, Quinlan plugged in the power cords, Murray fired up the EMP generator, and they scaled the roof once more. That time it blew the distributor.

Brakeman proved then that he, like many of the higher primates, was capable of learning, and guessed correctly that the problem was electrical. He got a friend from work, the same guy who helped carry in his new TV, to come and help fix it, and the Nova was up and howling again on Thursday. Murray killed it, and incidentally the new forty-six inch TV, on Friday, and the neighborhood had another quiet weekend while Brakeman cracked open his steering column. After he chose to run it late Monday night, Murray was on the roof Tuesday afternoon to shoot it down. The points fused again and they sat out on the front porch until dark, watching Brakeman rant and rave from one side of his driveway to the other, being careful with his language because the cops had threatened him with a ticket if they had to come back.

When it got dark, they went inside and Murray made supper, then celebrated by letting Quinlan fuck him up against the wall in the shower, slow and sweet and all kinds of hot under the cool spray. Quinlan was drunk on the thrill of Murray's victory, and his own power over the genius who conceived it, so he took his time and made that genius sob and beg before stroking him to orgasm and coming deep inside him.

"Wow," Murray sighed, leaning against the wall with his lover pressed against his back. "Next time we kill the car, I want to be on top."

***

Replacing the points went faster the second time and the Nova was up and running by ten o'clock Saturday morning. When it was still running after dark, the blue exhaust curling up in the light of the driveway flood lamps, Murray climbed the ladder against Quinlan's protestations and shut it down once more. He was actually getting comfortable up on the roof, and the little blue flash in the living room window that indicated he'd just fried a third TV was icing on the cake.

After that, Jay Brakeman started spending most of his time outside, muttering to himself and occasionally striking the car with his socket wrench. He worked under the floodlights all night and went to work in the morning dirty and unshaven. He wasn't sleeping and Murray thought he was losing weight. But every time he got the car running, he returned immediately to abusing his neighbors, so Murray couldn't afford to show mercy.

In the end, he killed the car eleven times, incidentally destroying six televisions, two VCRs, a stereo system and a digital watch. During that time, Deb and Rionda buried Murray in cookies and muffins, and someone on the block had a barbecue more or less for him every weekend. They may not have known exactly what, but word on the block was that he'd done something great for them. Even the Mendozas took a turn with a dinner party featuring traditional Mexican dishes and pastries.

On the Sunday morning after the Nova died for the last time, a wrecker from the local junk yard came and took it away. Everyone within earshot was outside to see it go, and Murray and Quinlan were close enough to see the misery on Jay Brakeman's face when the truck driver paid him two hundred dollars, and then pointed out that all it needed was a new distributor. Brakeman replied that he didn't know what it needed, but it was more than electrical work. Maybe a priest could help it, but he couldn't.

"Don't you feel bad," Quinlan ordered, sensing Murray's guilt. "If he'd ever once tried to be decent, it never woulda come to this."

"I know, but he must have loved that car a lot."

"He'll love the next one, too, and maybe it'll be quieter."

Murray sipped some lemonade and nibbled one of Rionda's brownies before answering. When he spoke again, his expression had brightened somewhat.

"Next weekend, can we take out his lawnmower?"


End file.
